


The King's Cook

by a_splash_of_stucky



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, King Bucky Barnes, King!Bucky, Natasha Romanoff (mentioned) - Freeform, Pepper Potts (mentioned) - Freeform, Secret Relationship, Servant Reader, Servant!Reader, Sharon Carter (mentioned) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 09:48:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12603872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_splash_of_stucky/pseuds/a_splash_of_stucky
Summary: King James develops a fascination with you, the castle cook.





	The King's Cook

**Author's Note:**

> For [this](http://theassetseyeliner.tumblr.com/post/165397854799/erins-au-writing-challenge-okay-so-im-on-spring/) AU writing challenge. My prompt was: “You don’t care about me anymore, do you? Did you ever?” – in bold somewhere in the fic.
> 
> This is my first foray into a Medieval AU — I quite like how it turned out. Fair warning: this fairytale has no happy ending.

Never, not even in your wildest dreams, did you imagine yourself in this position.

It had started when Maria, the head cook came stomping into the kitchen earlier this evening. “You, new girl!” she cried, pointing a finger imperiously in your direction. Your heart had stopped, eyes widening in mild terror.

“Come. You are to serve the King his dinner,”.

“M-me, madam?” you stammered, setting down the knife you’d been using to peel potatoes as you stood up and brushed off your apron.

“Yes, you,” Maria snapped impatiently. “The usual girl, what is her name? Sheila? No, Sharon! Yes, Sharon — she is ill and unable to go, so I am sending you in her stead,”.

“B-but, I—,”

“Come  _on_ ,” Maria hissed, grabbing hold of your forearm and dragging you over to the side table, where a tureen of beef stew was waiting to be taken up to the King. Maria glanced over your outfit and clucked disapprovingly, producing a rag from the pocket of her apron and using it to wipe the grime off your face. “Nothing we can do about the clothes, unfortunately,” she muttered under her breath. Maria straightened up, put her hands on your shoulders and levelled you with a stern glare.

“See here, girl,” she began, “You are to take this stew up to King James. You know where he dines, yes?”. After you nodded your confirmation, she continued, “Serve the stew into his bowl, try not to spill any on yourself, do  _not_  look him in the eye and only speak if he addresses you, understood?”

“Yes, madam,” you replied meekly.

“Now, for heaven’s sake, go!” Maria cried, thrusting a ladle into your hand, “He doesn’t like to be kept waiting!”

And that is how you ended up here, making your way up the stairs to King James’ dining hall. To say that you’re nervous would be an understatement; you’re practically quivering with fear, hands trembling so hard you’re worried that you might spill the hot stew all over yourself.

You’ve only been working in the castle for about a fortnight and so have yet to lay eyes on the King. Wanda, the castle maid with whom you share a room with, claims that he is extremely handsome, if rather reserved. The King is reputed for having a fierce temper and is known to be particularly sulky at times. You hope that tonight is  _not_  one of those times.  

You make it to the dining hall without incident, pausing outside the heavy oak doors for a moment to take a calming breath.

The room is ornately decorated in opulent shades of red, gold and emerald green. King James sits at the head of a long table, so you walk quickly towards him, careful to keep your head bowed. Though Maria had said to not look him in the eye, this does not prevent you from stealing glances at him through your lashes.

King James looks as regal as Wanda had described. Though he is swathed in thick robes of forest green, there is no hiding his muscular, well-built body. His dark hair flows over his shoulders, perfectly complimenting the devilish glint in his shocking blue eyes. You feel a distracting heat beginning to bloom in your core and you pray that he doesn’t notice your apprehension.

When you get to his side, you set the tureen on the table, pick up your ladle and beginning spooning the stew into his bowl. From the corner of your eye, you can see the King watching you with an amused smirk on his lips.

Just as you’re about to pick up your things and leave, his hand darts out and closes around your wrist. You gasp in surprise, startled by the sudden movement. His grip is not rough or forceful, just meant to hold you in place.

“You’re the new girl, aren’t you?” the King asks quietly, his voice deep and husky in a way that makes your heart flutter and your knees go weak. You force yourself to nod mutely in answer, not quite confident in your ability to form words, right now.

“What was your name, again?”

You dare to lift your eyes up to look at his face. This close, you can see how exquisitely  _stunning_  he is, those blue eyes observing you intently, as if he can see into your soul. As the seconds tick by, you feel your pulse accelerating, heart hammering against your ribs. It is a wonder that the King doesn’t hear it. “It—it’s Y/N,” you mumble.

The King hums thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side as his inquisitive gaze roams over your face. “Well, Y/N, I trust that you are happy working in the kitchens,”, he says.

“Y-yes, your majesty,” you reply, “I—I really do enjoy m-my work,”.

King James chuckles, sitting back in his chair as he releases you from his grip. You can still feel the ghost of his fingers around your wrist, a hauntingly familiar touch that you ache to feel again. “You may go now,” he says, flapping his hand at you in a dismissive motion, “Though I’m sure I’ll be seeing more of you soon, Y/N,”. You bob your head in some semblance of a bow, pick up the tureen and flee out of the dining hall, trying not to let your giddy excitement show too much.

—————————

“I heard you were sent to give the King his dinner,” Wanda comments, as she brushes the tangles out of her hair. The two of you are in the small bedroom which you share in the servants quarters.

“I was,” you confirm.

“And how was that?”

You don’t reply immediately, pausing to lace up the ties on your simple linen nightgown. “He was…unusual,” you murmur, “It seemed like he was interested in me,”.

Wanda snorts. “I’m sure he’s like that to all the maids in the castle,” she scoffs. “Probably beds a different girl every night. Certainly has the wealth to do so,”.

“Maybe,” you agree, even though you can’t help but think that Wanda is wrong. Whatever happened between you and the King was something unique. The moment had felt charged, electric even. There was an intense curiosity behind those blue eyes, a force that connected with you on a deeper level.

But then again, perhaps that is just your wishful thinking. Wanda  _has_  worked in the castle for longer, after all, she’s probably more aware of the King’s habits. You sigh heavily as you climb into bed, lying on your side to face Wanda.

“Why has he not wed anyone yet?” you ask.

She shrugs one shoulder indifferently. “I’ve heard that the pressure on him is mounting to produce an heir to the kingdom. Lady Potts has been suggested as a potential suitor, as has Lady Romanoff,”.

You hum thoughtfully. “Well, whoever he weds, I hope they make him happy,” you murmur, “I think he deserves it,”.

—————————

Over the next few days, you become increasingly aware of the King’s presence. No matter where you are in the castle, or what it is you’re doing, he always manages to show up — if, only for the briefest moment of time — casting that curious gaze over you, watching discreetly from the shadows. The more King James observes you, the more difficult it is to get thoughts of him out of your head; they plague you constantly, a cloud of fantasies and sinful desires which you keep to yourself.

It is just your luck when, a couple of weeks after you’d served the King his soup, Maria dashes into the kitchen late in the evening, a mildly panicked look on her face. You are the only cook still remaining, so she turns to you.

“Take this to the King’s study!” she cries, thrusting a decanter of port into your hands, “I cannot believe I have forgotten to send Sharon up with his nightly port!”

You stand there, dumbfounded by your orders. Maria growls in frustration, grabbing your elbow and hustling you out of the kitchen. “Quick girl, take the shortcut passage to the drawing room, hurry!” she urges.

You hasten down the corridor, heart racing in your chest at the thought of seeing King James up close once more. The shortcut passage is dark, forcing you to squint in the dim lighting. You pray that you’re going the right way; the entire castle is filled with narrow shortcut corridors like this one, meant for servants to use to travel quickly from one place to another. You try to conjure up a map of the castle in your head — this passage should lead you to the drawing room opposite the library, and the King’s chamber should be to the left—

“Oomph!”

Something large and incredibly solid crashes into you, sending the bottle of port tumbling to the floor, the glass shattering into a million shards with a sickening smash. In the darkness, you’d failed to notice the person coming down the corridor in the opposite direction. You can feel wetness seeping into the material of your bodice, making your dress cling to your skin — some of the port must have spilled onto you.

You huff angrily. “Why you little—,”

“Oh ho ho, what is this?” asks a dark, gravelly voice. You freeze, recognising it immediately. “If it isn’t little Y/N, getting angry at the King for her own clumsiness,”.

“I—didn’t—I’m sorry—,” you stammer, words failing you in your shock.

“You should be,” the King hisses, taking ahold of your wrist and dragging you down the corridor after him. His strides are much longer than yours, forcing you to walk at a fast trot in order to keep up. You know that it is futile to resist him; King James is much stronger than you and if he so wanted, could carry you with ease. Besides, if he is already furious with you, there is no point in angering him further.

You’ll finally get a glimpse of that infamous temper of his.

The King walks briskly to his chambers, shouldering open the door to his study effortlessly. Now that the lighting has improved, you can see that he’s taken off the formal robes he wears during the day and changed into a simple pair of trousers and a white linen shirt. Vibrant pink is splashed over the front of his shirt, where the port has spilled. You cringe internally at the sight, mentally preparing yourself for the berating that will inevitably come.

To your surprise — and confusion — the King doesn’t say anything. You wait by the door, hands folded in front of you, your head bowed respectfully. King James stalks over to his desk, untying the laces of his shirt as he goes. With his back to you, he pulls the shirt over his head and drops it onto the table. You stifle a gasp at the sight of his bare back; sinuous muscles ripple underneath his skin, which glows invitingly by the light of the fire.

What interests you more is the extensive scarring over his left arm. Ridges of darkened tissue bloom over his shoulder, twisting and coiling their way down the limb, going as far down as his wrist. You vaguely remember Sharon telling you that the King had been involved in a terrible accident during battle, leaving his arm mangled and almost unsalvageable.

He turns to you now, padding swiftly across the room to stand in front of you. Your breath hitches in your throat as the King draws near. You’re fighting to keep your gaze trained on the floor, ignoring the overwhelming urge to roam your eyes over his half-naked body.

“Tell me, Y/N, are you afraid?” the King asks softly.

“Y-yes, your majesty,” you reply, voice barely louder than a whisper.

“What do you think I will do?”

There is something in the tone of his voice that piques your interest; amusement mixed with a note of concern. Though it is a risky gesture, you lift your eyes to meet his gaze. You’re taken aback by the softness in his gaze — perhaps he does not intend to punish you after all.

“I…don’t know, your majesty,” you answer honestly, “I was careless, and should have seen you coming. I am sorry,”.

“I wouldn’t fret about it,” the King assures you, “I should have been more watchful myself. Besides, I have plenty of shirts — the loss of one is not a huge concern to me,”.

You breathe out an internal sigh of relief, overjoyed by this turn of events.

“Would you like to stay, Y/N?” he asks.

“Your majesty?” you murmur uncertainly, your mouth twisting into a frown. Does the King wish to send you away from the castle?

“Please,” says the King, “Call me Bucky, when we are alone. I drop the title on the other side of this door,”.

“Bucky,” you repeat, feeling the syllables roll off your tongue with a surprisingly familiar ease. “But I thought your name was James, your ma—Bucky,” you correct yourself.

Bucky smiles gently, “Yes, it is. James is my formal name, but Bucky is a nickname I allow the people closest to me to use,”. A thrilled shiver runs down your spine at the implication behind his words.

You nod slowly, licking your lips before speaking again. “Why—why would you want me to stay, Bucky?”

A shy smile spreads over his lips. “You are incredibly beautiful, princess,” Bucky breathes, one hand reaching out to cup your cheek.

“Princess?” you echo, brows knitting in confusion, “But I am no princess, Bucky. I’m just a humble cook,”.

“This is true,” Bucky agrees, “But in here, with me, you can be my princess. Would you like that?”. His thumb is brushing over your cheekbone, touch gentle and hesitant. You cannot stop yourself from leaning your head to the side, pressing your cheek into Bucky’s palm. You have a feeling you know exactly what the King’s intentions are, but you have no desire or will to resist them. This might lead you to your ruin, but Bucky is, without question, the man you want to be with.

“Yes,” you reply, tipping your head back to look into his soulful blue eyes, “I would like that very much,”.

—————————

A few nights later, you’re startled when someone raps their knuckles on the door to your bedchambers. Wanda frowns, puzzled as to who could possibly be wanting to see you at this late hour. You get out of bed and cross the room to open the door, stunned to find the King’s closest advisor, Lord Steve, on the other side.

“Good evening, Y/N,” he says formally, bowing his head in respect. “The King has summoned you to his chambers. Follow me, if you please,”.

You look at Wanda over your shoulder, whose eyebrows have shot up so high, they almost disappear into her hairline. She winks at you, jerking her head to the side in a silent  _go_.

“Yes, of course,” you say to the Lord, pulling the door shut behind you, “Lead the way,”.

Lord Steve takes you down a series of corridors towards the King’s chambers. He stops beside a small room and pushes the door open, gesturing for you to step inside. “Go inside,” he instructs, “There is a dress there for you. You may leave the rest of your clothes on the table after you’ve changed. I will wait here,”.

“Yes sir,” you murmur, stepping inside. The Lord shuts the door after you.

It’s a small bath chamber, a basin filled with water in one corner of the room, a bar of soap and a rag beside it. Against the opposite wall is a table, on top of which lies an exquisite black lace dress, that seems to reveal more than it covers. Hanging from a hook on the wall is a long black cloak, presumably for you to wear on top of the dress so as to preserve your modesty.

You hastily strip off your nightclothes and step into the basin, groaning as the hot water kisses your skin. Picking up the soap and rag, you work up a good amount of lather, then use the rag to clean yourself as best as possible. You wash the grime for underneath your nails and rub at your skin until it is scrubbed raw. After your late-night tryst with Bucky a few days ago, you have a feeling you know what you’re in for tonight, and want to be as nice as possible for him.

Once you’re satisfied with your cleanliness, you pick up the small towel beside the basin to dry yourself off. Then, you cross over to the table and carefully pick up the lace dress. As you hold it up, you see that the lace has been interwoven with silver threads that catch the light and sparkle seductively whenever the dress moves. You put it on, fastening the row of buttons down the front of the bodice whilst marvelling at how well the garment accentuates your body. After donning the cloak and ensuring that it covers everything, you go outside to meet Lord Steve.

The walk to Bucky’s chambers is silent. Steve knocks thrice on the door and, upon hearing Bucky’s call of ‘enter’, gestures for you to go inside.

Bucky is pacing back and forth over the floor of his study, robes half-off and in disarray. He stops in his tracks when he sees you, eyes immediately going soft and tender.

“My princess,” he says quietly, rushing over to your side, “I have been dying to see you again,”.

“Me too, your maj—Bucky,” you reply, smiling coyly at him. Bucky’s eyes flick up and down your body. When he notes the black cloak, his eyes widen infinitesimally.

“The dress? It’s to your liking?” Bucky asks breathlessly, his big hands coming to rest on your waist. You lean up on your tiptoes and press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“I want you to see it,” you whisper, taking one of his hands and bringing it to the fastening on your cloak. His breath quickens, pupils dilating as he fumbles to get it open. The dark material pools around your feet, revealing you in that glorious dress. Bucky looks like he’s about ready to eat you alive; you’ll happily let him do so, if that’s what he wishes.

“My princess,” he growls, eyes darkening with lust, “You truly are beautiful,”.

—————————

Wanda pulls you aside one evening as you’re sneaking away to Bucky’s chambers, a grim set to her jaw. You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong, but she claps her hand over it, pulling you into an alcove. She glances up and down the corridor to ensure that no one is eavesdropping on your conversation — your affair with the King is still a secret, after all.

“Lady Romanoff is arriving at the castle in two days’ time,” Wanda says tersely.

Your heart sinks into the pit of your stomach at her words. “What—what does she want?” you ask, voice strained.

Wanda sighs, squeezing your shoulder gently. “We’ve…been asked to prepare the bridal chambers for her arrival,”.

“ _Bridal_ chambers?” you hiss, stomach doing a nauseating flip-flop at the word.

“Yes,” Wanda replies, lips pursed. “I am to be one of her ladies in waiting. They are to be married, Y/N. The wedding arrangements have been going on in secret for months, apparently,”.

Your heart stills inside your chest, icy-cold talons of dread encircling it in a vice-like grip. It is as if your entire world is collapsing around you, since the one source of happiness in your life has been cruelly ripped out of it. If he  _knew_ about this, why would he lead you on with his promises of a forever together?

“You can’t go back to him, Y/N,” Wanda whispers sadly, “Not when he is to be married to someone else,”.

“I at least need to see him again,” you protest, crossing your arms over your chest, “To ask—to…for answers,”.

Wanda seems hesitant to agree, but shrugs nonetheless. “If…you think that is wise,”.

“Thank you, Wanda,” you say sincerely, squeezing her hand, “For telling me of this. I will—,”

“There’s no need,” she assures you, “I wish you the best in there Y/N. Crossing a member of the royal family is not for the faint-hearted and weak,”.

You hurry through the castle, rage simmering below the surface of your skin as you reflect upon your foolish naivety.

The few months you’d had together are beyond what words could describe. You cannot remember how you lived without him; Bucky is your sun, your moon, the only thing holding you to this planet. Every moment you’d shared together you treasure dearly. Your heart is completely devoted to your King, belonging to him entirely. There is no doubt of it in your mind; you would’ve done anything for him, surrendered yourself completely to him, if that is what he asked of you.

It’s a shame that Bucky does not feel the same.

You’re on edge when you step into Bucky’s study and he picks up on this immediately. He comes to your side and wraps his arms around your waist, rests his chin atop your head.

“My princess,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb over the small of your back. “What troubles you?”

There is no skirting around the issue here, it is best to get this over and done with as fast as possible. “Why did you never tell me?” you ask coldly.

Bucky tenses, the hand on your back stilling all of a sudden. “Tell you…what?” Bucky asks slowly.

“Don’t play the fool,” you snap, pushing him away from you. Bucky swallows nervously when he sees the livid fire in your eyes. “I  _know_  that you are to wed Lady Romanoff in a few days’ time. You’ve been planning this for months — why didn’t you  _tell me_?” you scream.

He hesitates, disconcerted by the unbidden rage in your tone. In his silence, you press onwards, throwing more accusations his way.

**“You don’t care about me anymore, do you? Did you ever?”** you snarl, fighting to keep your voice steady despite the anguish threatening to bubble out of you. “Did I ever mean something to you, or was I just another girl to bed? A conquest? A game for you to play with? Was my heart nothing more than another one of your toys?” you ask, voice becoming shriller and more hysterical at the end.

Bucky shakes his head fervently, hands reaching out to cup your face. You swat them away angrily.

“Princess, I—,”

“Don’t you  _princess_ me, your  _majesty,_ ” you mock, “We both know that I am not a princess. That’s the problem there, isn’t it?”

“I love you,” he says desperately, collapsing to his knees in front of you, hands fisting in the skirt of your dress. “Please, I swear on my life, I  _love_ you,”.

“I find that hard to believe,” you say curtly, gingerly disentangling his fingers from your skirts. “You love me, yet you’re marrying her,”.

“No, Y/N, please believe me,” Buckypleads, the torment evident in his tone, “I  _do_  love you, I love you with all of my heart,”.

“That may be true,” you concede, “But I will always love you more. How can your love for me ever match my love for you, if you choose to marry her?”.

“Choose?” Bucky repeats in disbelief, “I have no  _choice_ ,”.

You shake your head sadly, allowing the back of your hand to graze over his stubbled cheek one last time. “I have always known that this would end, your majesty,” you murmur, “Goodbye, my King. Please, if you truly mean what you say, do not send for me again,”.

And with that, you turn on your heel and dash out of his chambers.

Bucky may well have loved you with every fibre of his being, but the truth is, you have always loved him more; that is a fact that will likely haunt you for the rest of your miserable existence. You’d dared to cross a royal — which itself is an act worthy of punishment — but at this point, death may be more merciful than life. A life without him by your side is the most barbaric form of torture you could ever imagine. Can it even be called living if your heart has been torn out of your chest, leaving a yawning cavern of despair in its wake?

You don’t think so.

**Author's Note:**

> Share this post on [tumblr](https://a-splash-of-stucky.tumblr.com/post/167041906839/the-kings-cook/) :)


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